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Who is Jackson Rippner?

Chapter 2

Jackson sat at home that night, eating a ham sandwich, thinking about his plan to reconcile his feelings about Lisa Reisert, the one thorn in his existence. She had brought his life to a sudden halt. He hated showing any kind of weakness to anyone, and to be honest, he was a bit more threatening to her that he usually was to anyone while they were on the red eye flight. Probably because most people did what he wanted them to do.

That flight, that damned flight. He had failed of course, and wasn't given any more assignments, but at the time, he wasn't sure what the consequences might be for failing. As Lisa began her tricks to try to stop his mission, he had become increasingly frustrated and terrified. Yes, he had been scared about not pulling off the assassination; after all, it wasn't as if he worked with a bunch of social workers. He could only imagine what they might do to him if provoked.

As it was, his employers had given little faith to the plan at all; they knew how difficult it would be to assassinate a major American political figure post 9/11. That's the primary reason Jackson was alive. It was a risky mission, not very likely to succeed, and if he had been successful, he would have been seen as a star in the rising organization. But he hadn't, and here he was, sitting at home eating a ham sandwich – well, at his newly rented home only blocks from Lisa. He smirked, envisioning the look on her face if she knew how close he actually was.

But that red eye flight. Why had she gotten to him so? It's like she knew how to push his buttons, to exploit any weakness he might have, which he worked diligently at hiding. She pissed him off so much, that by the end of the whole "you had better make the call" nightmare, he was seething. He couldn't believe that getting her to make the call had taken so long. Such an easy thing to do: coerce a young girl to make a phone call, and he, Jackson Rippner, had almost failed to do so. He could count himself victorious that she made the call, but who would have guessed she hadn't given up?

At the end of the flight, just before she stabbed him in the throat; he protectively put his hand over the scar, feeling what she had done to him, and knowing that he would always carry her brand upon him, he had felt sympathy for her.

Actually, he had felt sympathetic for her twice: once, when he saw her scar in the bathroom and immediately knew she had been sexually assaulted. It had explained everything about her. The second time had been just before she stabbed him, and mentioned the attack (leaving out the rape, of course).

He remembered her exact words: "It made me realize something."

He couldn't see her face; she was staring out the window, but he could sense the desolate tone and utter helplessness she must have been feeling. How wrong had he been.

He had hesitated before replying, "That certain things are beyond your control." He thought he had showed concern, and then, the pen in the throat! It had pretty much erased his concern, right then and there.

He sighed now, chewing a bite of his favorite type of sandwich, reaching down for the remote, and still thinking about his plan. He wasn't purely evil, or at least, he hadn't started out that way. He propped his feet up on his coffee table and settled back on the couch as he flipped through the stations, comfortably dressed in just his boxers and an old "University of Virginia" t-shirt.

The other time he had felt remorse was when Lisa had given him that look; the look that "yes, you are a monster." He couldn't stand it. She hadn't been able to believe that anyone could mastermind an assassination of an entire family. He had swallowed hard on that one and managed to get out, "It's not my fault if someone wants to send a bold, brash message," or something like that. He couldn't even remember now. He just knew that it had never felt right to him.

But Keefe – as much as Lisa thought he was a decent guy – wasn't. He chuckled at how very naive Americans about their leaders. Keefe was as corrupt as they come, and he had been dealing with some pretty unforgiving guys, which was why he had been targeted by the assassins. They would still get him; they just wouldn't hire Jackson to do so. Of course, he thought, smiling, Lisa wouldn't have approved of the assassination anyway, no matter how corrupt the guy was. That was modern society for you. But Jackson knew better in his experience.

He settled on a documentary on the History Channel about World War I, and watching the combat action reminded him of his past and how he wanted Lisa to know certain things about him. He wasn't a monster, or at least, he hadn't started out that way.

He watched the show, the soldiers living in the trenches, the barbed wire, the re-enacted combat action meant for the silent newsreels of the day. He knew all about the history of this war, the Great War; he had studied it extensively, as well as all of human history. He knew that the film recordings made of the action were forced, planned, and free of blood. Just like every government since then and since the evolution of the modern screen, right down to the television set.

Jackson had started out his life this way, wanting to study things, to learn about things. He never had stopped wanting to do this. That's why Lisa intrigued him so much. How could someone with so much resolve, so much hope (which he thought, again, was innocent enough to be considered somewhat stupid) have retreated into her current state? Didn't she even contemplate her existence, her life? She seemed so complacent, in spite of her mini-revolts.

He knew enough about her to know that she had been a cheerleader/athlete type, the type he had hated in school. The eternally chirpy, always "up" kind of person. After studying her recently, he realized that there was more to her that met the eye. She was not that person she had been in the past. She was more complex than he gave her credit for.

He knew that she had gone to college in a small Florida state school and majored in business, and then gone on to work at the hotel. She seemed completely content with her life, and that baffled him. How could she think that was living? How could she consider her life "happy?" It was what made him think she was a sap, another sheep, another insipid lover of Dr. Phil, Oprah, and those ridiculous self-help books. But he had been wrong, he now realized, and if he hadn't underestimated her, his mission might have been successful.

Have been, should have been, he sighed, getting up and turning off the t.v. He had watched her earlier tonight and she was working her way listlessly through a Law and Order marathon. She had no idea what law enforcement was really liked.

He did a quick check on her now, before heading to his bedroom. He popped into his study and saw her on one of his multiple screens, in the living room, lying on the couch and watching the same show, the same dead expression on her face, characteristic of depression. He knew the look well.

He left the cameras on, but closed the door to the room, attended to his toilet, and got into bed. His air conditioner was on high blast; he hadn't gotten used to the heat in Florida, but he had always preferred to sleep with some noise. He also had his air filter running on high speed. Between the two, though, he could still hear anyone in his house, or anyone close to him. He was a light sleeper, and he slept with his gun right next to him, in his nightstand drawer.

He turned out the light, listening to the hum of his machinery, and continued to think about her. He wanted to alternately learn more about her and strangle her! She was so annoying, so sure of herself (or had been). She was so pretty, though, and her eyes were so warm; they reminded him of a girl he had known in the past.

Lisa hadn't even given him his cell phone back! He took his hands and rubbed his forehead, which had begun to hurt lately. He prayed the migraines weren't coming back. Whenever he was dealing with a philosophical nightmare, the headaches came back. The pain was astounding, everything that people had described migraines to be. The most severe ones left him lying in bed, unable to move, unable to have any light on at all.

But it wasn't to that point yet. He feel into a restless sleep, his dreams filled of Lisa. But when he awoke the next morning, he couldn't remember if his dreams had been of lust, concern, or hatred. But that was who he was.

Lisa Reisert heard the mailman deliver the mail to the door the next day; it was about 4:00 by the time he delivered, and Lisa managed to stagger to the door, uneager to see what unsolicited credit card applications she would receive today.

She grabbed the mail out of the box and sifted through the offers and junk mail, until she noticed a pale green piece, postcard size. It was blank.

She turned the card over, her brow furrowed. The only writing on the back was: "Garfield" and underneath it, "Fairfax."

What was this? She felt a sense of panic and scanned the neighborhood to see if anyone was watching her. There wasn't anyone in sight, except her across the street neighbor, Mr. Benjamin, who mowed his lawn about 50 times a week. He was deep into the activity now, but beyond that, the street was silent, all the children at after-school activities, or home alone, playing endless video games.

However, Jackson had seen her get the mail, look at the card, and turn it over, reading what he had written. He smiled slowly when he saw her look of panic, then confusion, and her quick retreat into the house.

Lisa dumped the rest of the mail onto the kitchen table, but kept the green postcard. She went to her computer and booted it up, probably for the first time in a month. Ignoring how many messages were in her inbox, she did a quick search on Fairfax, wondering if it was a county, town, city, gathering place, etc….

She immediately found four "Farirfax(s)." There was one in Northern Virginia, right near the DC area (which she had known about), another in Marin County in California, one in South Carolina, and the last, in Vermont. She was sure there were more: there had to be tons in England as well. But she figured it would probably be somewhere in America, as she knew "Garfield" probably related to the president who was assassinated rather than the popular cat. She quickly saw tha the had been assassinated in 1881.

She frowned, unable to see the connection. The references to Fairfax appeared most frequently to the Virginia city, but Garfield? What did that mean in conjunction with Fairfax?"

Why would someone want to send her a postcard with these two words? A person and a place. What did it mean? Why Fairfax? Was this just a joke? Something somebody had meant for someone else? But why was it put in her box? There wasn't even a stamp on it or an address label.

Lisa went back to the Garfield page, interested to learn more. History had never been her forte, and she had only remembered Garfield from a Jeopardy question about his assassination.

She found out that Charles Guiteau, his assassin, had actually been a disgruntled lawyer who had applied to become the US ambassador to France. He had been rejected, and then claimed that God had ordered him to kill the president.

On July 2, 1881, Garfield had arrived at the Washington depot station to depart for Eberon, New Jersey, where his wife was convalescing.

He never made it; Guiteau, in hiding, had stepped out, and shot the president twice. One bullet grazed Garfield's arm, and the other lodged itself somewhere in his body. Assassinations made her think of Jackson, but she pushed the thought aside, interested in her search.

Garfield had been rushed to the White House, never even losing consciousness. For the next 80 days, he was attended to by 16 doctors, the first, a Dr. Willard Bliss, stuck his unsanitary finger into the bullet hole to probe around for a while, finding nothing.

Other doctors followed suit. The result was that a 3 inch wound turned into a 20 inch canal that became hopelessly infected. Garfield's heart was weakened and he suffered massive heart attacks, finally dying on September 19th, 1881. He had lingered on and suffered for 80 full days after being shot. The site she was reading contended that he probably would have survived if the doctors had left him alone. The bullet, according to the autopsy, hadn't damaged any major organs, and alone, probably wouldn't have killed him. She even read that Alexander Graham Bell and another man, by the name of Newcomb, had tried to use a rudimentary metal detector on the president to find the bullet!

She was intrigued and read on. According to old newspapers, they had tested the metal detector until it worked nearly to perfection, only to travel to D.C. and try it on the president, and fail. They couldn't figure it out. The culprit was the brand-new type of mattress Garfield was lying on – coil spring. The metal detector had been picking up signals from the coils rather than one bullet. But at the time, that had been unknown.

Lisa got up, a bit restless, but definitely intrigued. She went into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of Gatorade. Why had someone put this card in her mailbox? What were they trying to tell her?

Suddenly, and sickened, she knew it had been Jackson. She dropped her cup of Gatorade (luckily, it was plastic, or it would have shattered to bits) and spilled the fluid all over herself and the floor.

"Shit!" she exclaimed, fussing over the cleaning of the floor, and changing out of her sweatshirt into a new one. The accident had given her time to dismiss her thoughts of Jackson and the trauma, but once she cleaned up, she started to feel those feelings again, that mixture of revulsion yet interest. She whipped her head around, making sure no one was watching her. She checked the drawer where she kept her gun, loaded. It was still there. She breathed a sign of relief and thought, what does this all mean? She innately sensed that the red eye flight had only been the beginning, and she was right.

From his home, looking at Lisa's face, and her returning paranoia, Jackson smiled. He placed his finger along the outline of her face and continued to watch with eagerness….

To be continued